Read Online Reckoning of Boston Jim by Claire Mulligan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Claire Mulligan
Ads: Link
bunk above, his boots grazing Eugeneâs head. The man blurs, solidifies. The American. Damn him. Eugeneâs head pounds and he has a raging thirst. Never again. Not that rotgut. What was in that jug, not tanglewood surely? He has vowed never to drink that insidious local brew. Ah, well, at least he drinks from a glass from time to time, not like these others sprawled about, snoring and gabbling, bottle suckers to the last.
On deck the air is hardly finer, what with the steamer billowing out smoke as it surges ahead. The men jar against him, drum their fists on the rail and call for greater speed. Eugene would rather they call for greater caution, has heard tales of boilers exploding, men and animals sent sky-high, the river stained with blood, choked with flotsam and gore. He sighs. The camaraderie of last night is gone. Each man is now a competitor of the other. Each man may stake the ground the other should have staked. Take his gold. Take his glorious future.
The currents coil through the grey-green river. He tries to find this mesmerizing. Would like to be mesmerized just now. They pass an Indian village on the bankâwood smoke, bark-snarl of dogs, shouts of children running to see them pass. Children everywhere the same, not wanting to miss an event, wanting to be the ones to say: âDid you see?â âYou wonât believe.â Eugene waves to them, dredges up a sense of wonder. A fine day after all, splinters of sun through pale low clouds. A promise of warmth later on. Rounded hills on either side now, pines clinging there. He looks to the bow and sees the suggestion of some great thing gliding by. It is longer than a billiard table, white as bone. Sturgeon? Whale? The vastness of the place astounds him, as if everything is stretched beyond the scale of imagining. Yesterday afternoon they passed through an enormous flat valley hemmed by white-capped mountains. The trees there were so tall it was easy to imagine that, like Jack the giant killer, a man could climb and climb until he reached another world entirely. He saw marshes large as small seas, and bogs aswirl with enough birds to blacken the sun.
In comparison the swathes of new-cleared land were laughable, minute. A few stumps, ten feet across or more, were charred and smouldering. Two men worked a cross saw, and a woman without her crinolines heaved an axe at nothing that he could see, the immensity of it all, he supposed, the futile task ahead. He sent out his sympathy with a wave for he knew the feeling well, had had to fight the impulse to cut and run when he and Dora first arrived in the Cowichan. One hundred and sixty acres, yes, but of trees two hundred, three hundred feet high, of impenetrable bramble, of wolf dens and worse. Impossible to imagine it transformed into the rolling hillsides of England, dotted with sheep and divided neatly with fences. He felt an interloper. And then the neighbours coming to assist, if neighbours are what one could call people who lived miles away, beyond sight. But there they were, twenty of them at the least. Together they hacked at the trees, tore up stumps, sang songs to keep up their strength. The women cooked great pots of salmon stew, brought out bannock, pie, and ale, blessed ale. Enough was cleared so that he and Dora could plant a garden and build a cabin. âDonât worry, dear, we help each other,â Mrs. Smitherton said each time Dora proclaimed her gratitude. It was as if Dora did not comprehend that they would be called upon in return. Eugene is wiser in this regard and has already decided that when he returns, flush with gold, he will hire a man to return help with the harvesting rounds, with any roof-raising for new settlers. For after this excursion, he intends to live as a gentleman should. He will congratulate others on their labours. He will pay them generously and they will touch their hats when he and Dora pass in a carriage and four. Perhaps in time he will be known
On deck the air is hardly finer, what with the steamer billowing out smoke as it surges ahead. The men jar against him, drum their fists on the rail and call for greater speed. Eugene would rather they call for greater caution, has heard tales of boilers exploding, men and animals sent sky-high, the river stained with blood, choked with flotsam and gore. He sighs. The camaraderie of last night is gone. Each man is now a competitor of the other. Each man may stake the ground the other should have staked. Take his gold. Take his glorious future.
The currents coil through the grey-green river. He tries to find this mesmerizing. Would like to be mesmerized just now. They pass an Indian village on the bankâwood smoke, bark-snarl of dogs, shouts of children running to see them pass. Children everywhere the same, not wanting to miss an event, wanting to be the ones to say: âDid you see?â âYou wonât believe.â Eugene waves to them, dredges up a sense of wonder. A fine day after all, splinters of sun through pale low clouds. A promise of warmth later on. Rounded hills on either side now, pines clinging there. He looks to the bow and sees the suggestion of some great thing gliding by. It is longer than a billiard table, white as bone. Sturgeon? Whale? The vastness of the place astounds him, as if everything is stretched beyond the scale of imagining. Yesterday afternoon they passed through an enormous flat valley hemmed by white-capped mountains. The trees there were so tall it was easy to imagine that, like Jack the giant killer, a man could climb and climb until he reached another world entirely. He saw marshes large as small seas, and bogs aswirl with enough birds to blacken the sun.
In comparison the swathes of new-cleared land were laughable, minute. A few stumps, ten feet across or more, were charred and smouldering. Two men worked a cross saw, and a woman without her crinolines heaved an axe at nothing that he could see, the immensity of it all, he supposed, the futile task ahead. He sent out his sympathy with a wave for he knew the feeling well, had had to fight the impulse to cut and run when he and Dora first arrived in the Cowichan. One hundred and sixty acres, yes, but of trees two hundred, three hundred feet high, of impenetrable bramble, of wolf dens and worse. Impossible to imagine it transformed into the rolling hillsides of England, dotted with sheep and divided neatly with fences. He felt an interloper. And then the neighbours coming to assist, if neighbours are what one could call people who lived miles away, beyond sight. But there they were, twenty of them at the least. Together they hacked at the trees, tore up stumps, sang songs to keep up their strength. The women cooked great pots of salmon stew, brought out bannock, pie, and ale, blessed ale. Enough was cleared so that he and Dora could plant a garden and build a cabin. âDonât worry, dear, we help each other,â Mrs. Smitherton said each time Dora proclaimed her gratitude. It was as if Dora did not comprehend that they would be called upon in return. Eugene is wiser in this regard and has already decided that when he returns, flush with gold, he will hire a man to return help with the harvesting rounds, with any roof-raising for new settlers. For after this excursion, he intends to live as a gentleman should. He will congratulate others on their labours. He will pay them generously and they will touch their hats when he and Dora pass in a carriage and four. Perhaps in time he will be known
Similar Books
